


Respect

by LolaEbola



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bondage, Captivity, Gags, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Nudity, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 03:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LolaEbola/pseuds/LolaEbola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You, Thorin Oakenshield, who should behave yourself here as my guest, instead act like a enemy captive, churlish and insolent, refusing to explain your furtive skulking in my kingdom when, if you had sought my leave, I should have given it to you.  Well, you shall learn some <i>respect</i>."</p>
<p>Gesturing to his guards, Thranduil turns his back on his prisoner.  </p>
<p>"Take him to the dungeons.  Bind him and muzzle him.  I shall attend upon him presently."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"So the prisoner refuses still to tell us why he and his followers were trespassing in Mirkwood?"

The Elvenking stands majestic before his throne, his silken hair glittering like a curtain of so many silver strands in the flickering torchlight.

"No, my Lord. He persists in his stubbornness, and in open defiance of your regal authority. He is a creature of the earth, my Lord - stolid and mulish. I would say as stupid as an ass, yet I believe his obduracy to be a product of a proud and deliberate intelligence rather than a boorish pigheadedness."

Thranduil motions his thanks to his elven adviser. To his entourage, he appears calm, lost in thought, and yet below that serene and stately exterior there smoulders a myriad of emotion and dark, forbidden desires. He had not expected the sight of the dwarfish king to unleash such a maelstrom of passion, after so many years, yet the moment he had once again set eyes on Thorin Oakenshield, he had been consumed with the burning lust of old, apparently rendered only more searingly intense by the passage of time.

Thorin had been all but dragged into his presence, struggling futilely against the elven chains binding him, snarling his anger and rebellion, his eyes flashing proud defiance at his captors. His elvish captors had then thrown him to the floor, to struggle helpless at Thranduil's feet.

"You know me, King-without-a-kingdom?"

Thorin spits, but ceases his struggle against the chains that will not yield. He will retain something of his pride, in the face of the disrespect of these smugly superior elves.

"I know your cowardice; how you would turn your back on an ally and leave him and his to the tender mercies of one who would take everything from them."

Thranduil frowns, momentarily. "I could not save you. You knew that."

"I knew nothing of the sort! Only your betrayal of our alliance." Thorin glares up at his captor. "You, Thranduil, Elvenking, were and are a coward and a traitor, and your shameful treatment now of the King of Erebor, a former ally, only serves to accentuate your cravenness."

Thorin glares up at his captor as Thranduil looks down upon him, lying helpless in his restraints at his feet.

The Elvenking steps back from the dais before his throne, the only outward show of anger the set of his jaw and the glittering darkness of his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is ice.

"You, Thorin Oakenshield, who should behave yourself here as my guest, instead act like a enemy captive, churlish and insolent, refusing to explain your furtive skulking in my kingdom when, if you had sought my leave, I should have given it to you. Well, you shall learn some respect."

Gesturing to his guards, Thranduil turns his back on his prisoner.

"Take him to the dungeons. Bind him and muzzle him. I shall attend upon him presently."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You would do well to learn to curb that temper, Thorin, King-in-Exile. Our Elvenking will not tolerate such behaviour, such outbursts of disrespect. We Elves value discipline and self-restraint, two qualities you would do well to try to emulate."
> 
> "I shall take no lessons in manners from those who would hold a former ally prisoner without cause, and separate a leader from his people, _elf_."
> 
> The elven adviser gestures to his attendants. "Very well then, Thorin, King-in-Exile, as you wish."

Thorin struggles violently as he is dragged from the throne room, cognizant of the fact that he cannot escape the chains binding him, but wild with anger and humiliation and longing to be able to inflict some injury on those holding him, however minor.

"You would do well to learn to curb that temper, Thorin, King-in-Exile. Our Elvenking will not tolerate such behavior, such outbursts of disrespect. We elves value discipline and self-restraint, two qualities you would do well to try to emulate."

As they descend from the Elvenking's throne room, they pass the small cells set alongside the staircase, and Thorin is met on all sides with shouts of recognition from his company.

"Thorin! That's happening, laddie?"

"Uncle! Where are they taking you?"

"What's going on? Are these elves going to let us go?"

Before Thorin can answer, he is dragged quickly down the staircase, into the deep caverns below. After what seems to him miles of being marched and manhandled through endless dark tunnels and winding staircases, the elves at last stop before a stoutly reinforced wooden door, thrusting it open and forcing Thorin inside. Looking around him, he sees it is a dungeon room, far darker and danker and colder than those currently holding his friends.

Shrugging off the restraining hands of his elven captors, Thorin snarls.

"Discipline? Self-restraint? I shall take no lessons in such matters from those who would hold a former ally prisoner without cause, and separate a leader from his people, elf!"

The elven adviser gestures to his attendants. "Very well then, Thorin, King-in-Exile, as you wish."

Thorin snarls with renewed fury as he is held still whilst his clothing is removed, layer by layer. The elves are meticulously courteous and gentle, effortlessly holding him still between them as they work methodically until he is stripped naked.

Even then, there are no pinches or squeezes or touches in any way inappropriate; Thorin is simply pushed to his knees and his bindings rearranged so that his wrists are chained together behind his back, then secured by another length of chain to the bindings hobbling his ankles, and his ankles are then similarly secured to a heavy metal ring set into the floor of the dungeon.

The elven adviser turns to one of his attendants. "The muzzle, please."

The adviser hands him an object formed of gleaming silver-colored metal, decorated with intricately carved tengwar. Thorin bares his teeth at the sight of the elvish script, and shakes his head furiously in an attempt to prevent his captors silencing him with the muzzle. But, once again, the elves handle his struggles with ease, fitting the base of the object up under his chin and pressing long, slim fingertips into the side of his jaw until he he is forced against his will to open his mouth.

The thick wedge of metal pushed deep into Thorin's mouth is the only part of the muzzle to lack the usual elven elegance. Smiling somewhat unpleasantly at him, the elven adviser speaks.

"Normally, when an unexpected guest trespasses upon our King's lands with no explanation and no apology, he would be subjected to a far less cumbersome and, dare I say, unpleasant muzzle. But you, Thorin Oakenshield, have shown yourself to be in need of much correction.

Therefore, you shall wear our most punitory and correctional muzzle, in the hope and expectation that it will cool your hotheadedness and temper your language, when you are again permitted to speak."

The adviser's attendants buckle the device tightly around Thorin's head: the thick wedge is held securely in his mouth by the metal covering his chin and lower face, its edge resting just below his nose. A thick strap is locked over the top of his head, another fastened tight at the nape of his neck.

In short, the dwarven king is rendered totally mute, and totally helpless, in his restraints.

The attendants leave him, bound and silent, kneeling seething with anger and humiliation in his chains, in anticipation of the Elvenking's return.


	3. Chapter 3

Thranduil paces in his chamber, unable to be still, every fibre of his being alive and pulsing with his lust for the dwarven King. He must have him; simple dominance and control is not enough. Thranduil will have his captive offer himself, if not willingly, at least with the semblance of willingness. But how to force the proud Thorin to bend to his will?

As if on cue, the heralds announce his trusted adviser's attendance on him.

"How fares our guest, Caranthir?"

"As wild with pride and anger as ever, my Lord. He is bound and muzzled, and counselled to amend his hotheadedness. Whether he will take such counsel to heart is of course moot, my Lord."

Thranduil considers, deep in thought. 

"I fear that you are right, old friend. In that case, what can we do to break his stubbornness? I would know his reasons for bringing his company into Mirkwood and, simply for the peace of my throne room and my attendants, I would have this dwarf rendered less of a vexation to us."

If Caranthir guesses at anything more than this behind his King's musings, he does not say so. 

"I understand that he is very protective of his nephews, the dwarves Fili and Kili. His sister's sons, my Lord, under his protection. Perhaps if mention were made of them, and how they might fare if their uncle persists in his stubbornness?"

Thranduil laughs, shaking his head. "I wish that I had your instincts for strategy of this type, old friend. But, no matter. I shall visit our guest, and see if your counsel persuades him to become somewhat more - _amenable_."

~.~.~.~

Thorin shifts again in his restraints, trying to become more comfortable. It is an impossible task: the chains secure his ankles and wrists too closely to the floor to allow him any real movement, and the muzzle forces his jaws open around the metal wedge lodged deep in his mouth. 

He cannot prevent his saliva from pooling in the metal guard below his chin, and then dripping down over his throat and chest, forming a puddle on the floor beneath him.

He tenses as Thranduil enters the dungeon, frowning in faux distaste at the saliva streaked dwarf tethered naked before him.

"I have come to offer you a bargain, Thorin. For many years now, I have wanted a pet, a _concubine_. A chattel to serve as my bed slave. I have found none to date in my kingdom who I would have serve me so - yet, when I espied your _nephews_ \- both so fresh, so _innocent_ , I realised that I had at last not only found my pet, but _two_ of them at once!"

Thorin's shouts of outrage are muffled by the muzzle, but he struggles as violently as he can, determined to break free of his bonds and strangle the smug Elvenking as he stands before him.

"Do you wish to speak, _dwarf_?"

Thranduil summons his aides, who quickly unlock the muzzle from Thorin's head.

The Dwarf King's voice is cracked with thirst and emotion.

"Take me, Thranduil. You have always lusted after me - I saw it in your eyes when we met that first time, so long ago. Leave my kin be and take me."

Thranduil looks down upon his captive, as if considering. "Your nephews are young - fresh, virginal, _untried_. Why would I trade a pair of such plump young chicks for an old, stringy, broiler? You must alone out-perform such a pair of delicious young fare to excite a King's appetites, _dwarf_."

Thorin can hardly speak. "Whatever my Lord wishes. I shall satisfy him."

"We shall see. You _will_ satisfy me, Thorin Oakenshield, or I shall take your company one by one for my Elvish warriors' _whores_. 

You of course, shall be _my_ whore. My so-eager-to-please-bitch. My pet."


	4. Chapter 4

Thranduil cannot recall ever before feeling such a physical rush of sensation as when he takes his pet's hair in his hand, twisting it in his fist and forcing his captive's face into his crotch. Like his fellow elves, his previous sexual experience has been somewhat more refined, attended with more pomp and solemnity, albeit wonderfully satisfying for all of that.

Yet this, with this being of the earth, whose body is so hot beneath his fingers, so wild and so _unwilling_ , excites a streak of sadistic lust within the Elvenking that he did not, hitherto, know existed. With Thorin's nose buried in his robes right at the point where his erect cock meets his heavy ballsack, he wants more than ever to defile the dwarf King; to impale him upon his prick, to make him cry out, in pleasure and in pain; to possess him totally.

Gesturing to his attendants, Thranduil thrusts his prisoner back to the floor of the dungeon. 

"Have him washed and prepared, then brought to my bed chamber."

~.~.~.~

Thorin no longer bothers to struggle as he is unchained and dragged up through the narrow passageways to an area which appears, from the sheer number of exotic oils, perfumes and cosmetics, to be a female bath chamber. Noticing the prisoner glancing at the array of bottles, boxes and pots, the attendant sniggers.

"A multitude of womanly cosmetics, Thorin, King's-pet? Is that what you survey?"

Thorin twists his neck, his hair held tight in the grip of another attendant.

"Am I brought here, to this womanly bath chamber, to humiliate me further?"

The attendant holding his hair twists the skein of dark, silken threads, making the dwarf King wince as his head is pulled back to face his captors.

"A _womanly_ bath chamber? Not at all. This is a _whore's_ bath chamber, a place to prepare _whores_ for their duties. You, Thorin Oakenshield, King's-pet, are to be prepared for your new position as whore to our King."

~.~.~.~

Thorin has been bathed, scrubbed, rubbed down with exotic-scented oils, and his raven hair brushed out and oiled until it gleams. He cannot believe that there can be any further humiliation than what awaits him in Thranduil's bed, but he is wrong.

"Bring me the pot of rouge, and the slave bracelets." The attendant currently holding him has him kneeling bent over, his face to the floor, a slim yet powerful elven hand locked on the back of his neck.

The "slave bracelets" consist of delicate chains for Thorin's wrists and ankles, wrought from deceptively strong Elven metal. When he espies the collar and cock-ring, Thorin begins once again to fight. He may have become the Elvenking's bed-slave, but he will not demean himself to wear such emblems of his new status willingly.

The elves take no notice of his struggles. The brilliant, finely-wrought collar is secured around his neck, just as the thick ring is pushed down over his cock, immediately trapping the blood there and producing an incipient erection.

The attendants laugh at that. "The King's new whore is already getting hard for it - look at its cock! It wants its owner's prick up its arse!" 

Just when Thorin concludes he can sink no further into the humiliation of his new role, the head attendant speaks again.

"Do not forget the rouge. Its lips, nipples and hole should be reddened and plump for the King's pleasure."

Thorin is manhandled yet again, an elvish finger anointing his lips whilst another decorates his nipples with the deep red cosmetic. It is only when his buttocks are prised apart, and a slim elven finger strokes his most intimate area, colouring it the deep red of sexual arousal and desire, that Thorin begins to weep, silently, into his beard.


End file.
